


Best Monday Ever

by SrebrnaFH



Series: Srebrna's Sherlock Oneshots [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baking, Domesticity, Movie Night, Parental Expectations, Protective John Watson, Sherlock is adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:34:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22152601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: Sherlock is unhappy because of... reasons.John bakes, because of Sherlock's birthday.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Srebrna's Sherlock Oneshots [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1356124
Comments: 20
Kudos: 84
Collections: Happy Birthday Sherlock Holmes - 6.1.2020





	Best Monday Ever

“Just because it’s Monday it doesn’t mean you are entitled to behaving like a brat,” John poked the misshapen mass on the sofa.

The mass answered with something between a snort and a growl.

Sherlock was in a snit. Sherlock was _not_ bitchy, or whiny, or pouty. He was above these. He was, however, in a snit. John shook his head over his friend and drew the throw from the back of the sofa over the Only Consulting Lump in London. Or, probably, the whole Britain.

Sherlock made another noise, a bit muffled by his thick dressing gown and the throw.

It was rather nippy in their living room, so John decided to make some fire in the grate and so, he drew a piece of paper from the kindling box.

“...your birthday, dear boy. Hopefully this year you will finally bring someone appropriate with you, since your mother...”

He turned the piece of paper and, in a different handwriting, it said “...as if it was today. The streets were iced over and your father drove frightfully fast. Beginning of January is no time to give bir...”

_Oh. Ohhh..._

Sherlock’s parents were a lovely pair that did not understand their sons. Absolutely, completely. Utterly. Well, John could not claim he understood Sherlock _fully_ , but he did have some inkling into the workings of his heart.

Nobody on the planet would probably survive gaining understanding of Mycroft’s heart, obviously, but Sherlock was so much more... human. So much more obvious, at least to John, who had lived with him for the last decade (barring these two years that neither of them brought up anymore).

Sherlock was, unlike his older brother, very delicate. He could play the tough, hard-skinned bastard all he wanted. John knew that deep inside he had a soft, gooey centre that went “ooh” at the sight of a kitten, prompted him to pet dogs and it was what made him such a great detective. He cared about people. He might have been a perfectly cold on the outside all he wanted, curt to friends and strangers equally, but somewhere under that shell was the Sherlock only John knew. The one who slept for hours after the case, to get respite after the emotional upheaval. The one who needed quiet of his own flat to unwind. Who wrapped the loved and the known and the comfortable around himself like a safety blanket (the actual proper blanket, not like the scary orange one the paramedics used).

What he was _not_ , however, was willing to fulfil his parents’ expectations regarding his change of lifestyle. Especially since they actually, for some reason, expected him to be... normal. Common.

How could a pair of minds like his parents (intelligent, one diplomat and one mathematics professor) produce a pair of minds like Sherlock and Mycroft (quite escaping the simple definitions of human brains) and so fundamentally misunderstand them from the respective day of their birth onwards...?

He shrugged, started the fire and sat in front of it for a few minutes, revelling in warmth. Once the room seemed less like an interior of an industrial freezer and more like an actual living room, he added another blanket on top of Sherlock The Lump and, rubbing his hands, switched the light on in the kitchen. There, he pulled the prepared crust out from the freezer of the “edibles” fridge (one of the small concessions Sherlock made for his sake in the recent years) and popped it into the pre-heated oven, opened the carefully hidden jar of filling and pulled out the spice packets.

Soon, strong, sweet smell of cinnamon, vanilla and apple filled the flat.

“Jooaahn?”

Sherlock sounded as if a yawn had caught him in the middle of the word.

“What is it?”

“Is the bakery down the street burning? I can smell... pie...”

One large green eye looked at John from the direction of the shapeless blanket lump.

“Whipped cream or vanilla ice cream?” John asked, smiling mildly at the picture his friend made.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Neither is this.”

Sherlock straightened, sitting up. His head was surrounded by a veritable halo of riotous curls.

“Hah. So it isn’t the bakery that is burning, it’s just a single pie,” he concluded, eyes narrowing.

“Well, it’s not _burning_ , it’s _baking_. These two activities do share some traits - high temperature, carmelisation, carbonisation... but baking is an earlier stage of the process.”

Sherlock sniffed.

“Baking. You are baking.”

“It does occasionally happen, yes.”

“Why, for the love of all that is holy, are you baking? The very idea of you baking seems so absurd that I’m going to investigate the details later, but... Why?”

“Because I have ice cream, whipped cream and...” John checked, “Vanilla pudding and some custard.”

Sherlock blinked.

“So, which one will it be?”

“...vanilla ice cream _and_ custard,” came a slow answer.

John cut out two thick, syrupy, cinnamony pieces of the pie and added the requested decorations to Sherlock’s plate, heaping a small hill of whipped cream on his own.

Sherlock eyed the concoction suspiciously.

“Not poisoned, Sleeping Beauty,” John pushed the plate towards him. “Eat, before the ice cream melts.”

"It was Snow White who got poisoned with fruit. Sleeping Beauty got cursed and poked her finger with a household item,” Sherlock grumbled. “You won’t catch me on fairy tales trivia again. I’ve watched the entire Disney collection last year when you were on that dreadful conference.”

“Ah, time well spent then. Which one was your favourite?”

Sherlock carefully avoided answering by stuffing his face with a large piece of the pie.

“So...” John pointed towards him with his fork. “I’m guessing... Moana?”

“What? No!” the great detective spluttered around a mouthful of ice cream.

“Mulan?”

“The premise was flawed. They would have discovered her in mere days. The way a woman moved in these times in China must have been so vastly different from the man...!”

John smiled and waited for the right moment.

Sherlock glared at him, but finally gave in and cut another bite.

“The Great Mouse Detective,” John pronounced decisively.

Sherlock was outraged.

Injured.

Also, he had his mouth full of some really good apple pie and a lot of really good custard.

He could only frown in annoyance and, as regally as he could, swallow the dessert.

“I will decline answering this absolutely asinine question.”

“Oh, well,” John made a little swirl of filling in his whipped cream. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Why?”

“Nothing, nothing...” he chewed on another piece slowly, carefully. “I mean, I could have dug up the DVDs and put one specific disk already in the player, but if you are saying that this is _not_ your favourite, I’ll have to find something else.”

Green eyes narrowed dangerously.

“John Watson, turn that TV on this minute and play that movie.”

He smothered the smile.

“Since you are asking so nicely.”

####

Only much later, when the movie finished and they were slowly dozing off on the sofa, Sherlock curled up with his head in John’s lap and sighed heavily.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“Don’t mention it.”

“Mhm. But really.”

“Happy Birthday, my friend.”

“Oh, don’t mention it, please.”

John allowed his fingers to delve into the riot of fluffy curls and he listened to Sherlock’s little sighs. Whatever Holmes’s the Elders had cooked up for their youngest’s birthday, John and Sherlock had had probably the best Monday ever.

Also, if Mummy insisted on Sherlock bringing someone with to whatever kind of overblown celebration they planned, John would be more than happy to play the role of a devoted boyfriend. He would actually suggest just this to Sherlock.

In the morning.


End file.
